Listen to the Moon - A Poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Listen to the Moon

When you are very old, speak to the moon,
Just as you did when you were very young
And if you listen, listen carefully
The moon will continue telling a story
That she began in the long, long ago
Just at the moment when you thought yourself
Too grown-up then to listen to the night
She smiles, and waits, that queen among the stars
For you to grow as wise as once you were:
When you are very old, listen to the moon

The True-Born Englishman Wants his Nap - A Poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The True-Born Englishman Wants his Nap

Whenever an Englishman wants to sleep
He attends a cricket match, where snores are deep

Another Inadequate Baptismal Metaphor - A Poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Another Inadequate Baptismal Metaphor

September rain is a baptism of sorts
Redeeming summer’s woods and fields from drought
From death, at least a little while, so they
May vest themselves in robes liturgical

For late October’s frost-time funeral mass
Is celebrated with true festal joy
As in cathedrals, forests of the heart
With autumn filtering down through leafy prayers

The green months then slip softly out of time -
September rain is a baptism of dreams

Where are the Squirrels of Spring? - A Poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Where are the Squirrels of Spring?

(John Keats wrote much of the first line; I helped him with the rest)

Where are the squirrels of spring? Ay, where are they?
Flattened by a log truck, just yesterday
When old enough to leave the autumn nest
They ran into the road, there flattened, pressed
Though cautioned by their wise sciuridaean sire
They panicked before an approaching tire
They had little time for a valedictory squeal
Before they died, so young, beneath the wheel -
So even if the old folks seem such a bother
You really ought to listen to your father

Deer Season

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Deer Season

An autumn morning in the chilly woods
The campfire mostly ashes grey and warm
Some early riser fumbling with the stove
To light the gas and set the coffee pot
On a hissing circle of thin blue fire
While an outraged fox squirrel protests everything
The leaves are damp, pale-pearled with yawning light
From a weak, shivering November sun -
Dogs, men, boys, guns, boots, biscuits, pipes, cigars
Dawn sighing in the pine tops this perfect day

Night Terrors - A Poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


Night Terrors

When in the darkness monsters creeping near
Chase all the dreams from a little boy’s head
And have him clutching the covers in fear
He remembers the flashlight beside his bed
And aims it at the noises in the dark
Grim midnight’s hiddenness and mystery
Where monsters gibber and mutter and bark
He snaps it on – and what there does he see?
Curled warm in her bed, all in a tiny heap
It’s only the dog, snort-snorting in sleep

Halloween Follies of 2015

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Halloween Follies of 2015

Halloween is dismissed by some as a superstitious folly, though of course it is far less superstitious than the belief that throwing a bucket of cold water over one’s head will cure a sickness suffered by somebody else. Otherwise rational people also believe that a paint stripe will keep two cars from crashing into each other, and that the lights and noises crackling from a little box constitute friendship.

Once a religious observance in honor of all saints, both known and unknown, Halloween was later kept as a children’s amusement but has since deteriorated into the first gimme-more-stuff day of our secular distraction season extending to Super Bowl Sunday

Children once dressed in old bedsheets or other homemade costumes to trick-or-treat under the watchful protection of adults. Adults now act far more childishly than any child, and the children themselves must be kept inside so they will be safe from looting and arson.

Children require only newspaper hats and wooden swords to present themselves as pirates or as Robin Hood. Adults spend money on manufactured costumes, a far more childish thing to do. Instead of cowboys and princesses, adults pretend to be the very persons they dislike, which can’t be much fun. Who would want to be a president or a secretary of state instead of a hero?

Given that Halloween is a political mess, here are a few unhelpful contributions to this year’s weirdness in costuming and in decorum:

Costume suggestion - a MePhone with a little human surgically attached.

A man in a suit stumbling around in confusion – clearly this Halloween character is a Republican Party leader.

An ensemble - an anti-gun Democratic congressman protected by guards with guns.

A wireless executive – after accepting the candy this character then advises you that by giving him candy you have agreed to a two-year contract and must give him treats every night or be subject to a fine for early termination of the contract.

MyFaceSpaceBook – this costumed character doesn’t go out and trick-or-treat; it slumps in a chair and friends (sic) pictures of chocolate.

A federal sky marshal – the character points a weapon at the householder and demands better candy.

A vegetarian vampire biting into a head of lettuce.

Donald Trump – this costumed character doesn’t ask for anything; he sends local armed authorities to seize your Halloween treats under Eminent Domain.

Trick-or-treating at the White House: “When the Secret Service man sobers up he’ll give you a nice, healthy acorn, sweetie.”

Trick-or-treating at tech support – “Your visit is important to us. The next available candy will assist you in (click) four (buzz) days. Your visit is important to us…”

Trick-or-treating at the home of an Air Canada cabin attendant: “NO! There isn’t any more candy, eh! We ran out of candy twenty rows ago! Go away!”

Trick-or-treating at the home of a United Airlines cabin attendant: “There’s an extra charge for that.”

Trick-or-treating at the home of an Aeroflot cabin attendant: “We have lots of candy. In Syria. Have you ever visited Syria? Would you like to visit Syria?”

Trick-or-treating at the home of a modern poet: “I, I, I, me, me, me, candy you say trick you say treat you say but my my my my oppressed marginalized victim voiceless voice cries out potty-mouth in serene thunderous existential angst against like stuff I, I, I, me, me, me.”

Yes, merriment is always much better when little pirates, princesses, cowboys, fairies, and heroes are in charge of it.

-30-

An American Hero Who Wasn't an American

Mack Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

An American Hero Who Wasn’t an American

An American hero died this week. He wasn’t an American, though, so just why he is an American hero needs some explaining.

In 1979, when the President of the United States was so useless that even a Merovingian might despise him, the Ayatollah Khomeini and his murderous mobs decided to seize the American Embassy in Tehran.

Fifty-two Americans were imprisoned and humiliated for 444 days while the President of the United States did little but wallow in his own helplessness.

Happily, not every nation was as feckless. Six American staffers who happened not to be in the embassy during the takeover were smuggled into the Canadian Embassy through the help of others, including – and we must not forget this - Iranians.

Ken Taylor, Canada’s ambassador to Iran in 1979, along with John Sheardown and his wife and other Canadians, hid the Americans for three months while planning an escape for them. The Canadian government generated false passports and a good cover story, and despite poor decisions by the C.I.A. which almost ruined everything, Ambassador Taylor and his staff managed to smuggle the Americans out of Iran on a commercial flight before escaping themselves.

Had this gone bad the Canadians might have been murdered by any of the mobs whose riots and murders and shifting allegiances constituted the Iranian government under the Ayatollahs.

Hollywood, in gratitude to Canada and Ambassador Taylor, made a movie about the operation in which the C.I.A. got the Americans out while the Canadians did little to help. This – and the threat of a wall – is how our nation often treats its best friend and strongest ally.

Mr. Taylor reminded everyone that there were Iranians who knew of the fugitive Americans and risked their own lives in not ratting them out. Not for these brave Iranians and Canadians the concept of “what difference…does it make?”

The other Americans in Tehran spent another long and dreary year in bondage until the day a good man, and a good friend to Canada, took the Oath as President.

Thanks to an American hero who wasn’t an American, Ken Taylor of Canada, six Americans were saved from that horror and degradation.

“Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and make perpetual Light to shine upon him.”

-30-

Prayer for Saint John Paul II with a Bar Code - Poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Prayer for Saint John Paul II with a Bar Code

A homily scrunched onto a prayer card
A catalogue of petitions and prayers
With barely enough room for the bar code
Fitted to the bottom mechanically

Condense the happiness, remembering
A merry moment not so long ago
The young chanting
“John Paul II, we love you!”

Over and over in the happy night
And that joyful man at the window there
Replying to them
“John Paul II – he loves you!”


Erase the card’s long lines of words, and then
Write only this:

V: “John Paul II, we love you!”
R: “John Paul II – he loves you!”

Blood Moon - Poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Blood Moon

The end of the world is upon us again
Twice in one month our planet has been cursed
Or doomed or something; it’s all about sin
And cobbled superstitions badly versed

Oh, no -

For we are given a September night
Incensed with last week’s rolled-up summer grass
And blessed with choirs of autumn stars for light
A silver sanctuary lamp, and prayers to pass

In procession solemn this Saint Michael’s Eve
And joyful to us who trust and believe

The Long Retreat - Poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Long Retreat

Everything seems to be sad twilight now
Our golden dusk has dimmed, and slipped away
Built of ego and credit card receipts
The barricades were easily overrun

Desperately in time, desperately out of date
The battle hymns of yesterday ring out
Through the corridors of the old folks’ home
As leaden oldies groovin’ to the past

Let us stand down and vigil the Dawn, for
Everything seems to be sad twilight now

Song of the Wild Sheep - Poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Song of the Wild Sheep

Does a sheep ever long to be a free spirit?
While waiting in a pen for shearing time
And flocked with other sheep between the rows
Of fences channeling them here and there?

Does it imagine itself a timbersheep
Stalking poor winter grass through snowy woods
Or a furry hippie groovin’ at Sheepstock
Or yet a philosopher named Ovis?

If a sheep ever mahhhhhs a manifesto
It will be set to mewesic by Mahhhhhler!

Cane, Shillelagh, or Pilgrim’s Staff?

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Cane, Shillelagh, or Pilgrim’s Staff?

A walking stick does not walk at all; it is carried by fashionable gentlemen who employ it both for adornment and for balance.

An acquaintance who shall rename nameless…don’t tell them your name, Pike! Oops – too late. Anyway, my buddy Pike must work with some uncooperative knee joints just now – knee joints are like that – but resists using his walking stick. My buddy Pike is like that.

Thus, I ask the reading public to help persuade Pike to take his walking stick with him on his adventures. Here is a beginning:

With the addition of a straw boater Pike could work on his Maurice Chevalier routine: “Every little breeze seems to whisper Louise…”

For football games Pike could bring out his weekend sports model, a walking stick with a portrait of Elvis carved into the handle.

All the cool kids have walking sticks this year.

An aluminum walking stick is a serious babe magnet.

Well, okay, a quadrupedal aluminum thingie is not cool, but for amusement Pike could name each of the four feet: Huey, Dewey, Louie, and Donald Trump, perhaps, or maybe Larry, Moe, Curly Joe, and Trevor.

Some walking sticks have a little compass in the handle. What could be more important than knowing where north is while roaming free in the vegetable aisle at the grocery store?

If Pike carries a walking stick and moans in pain occasionally, people won’t expect him to help move furniture.

A walking stick makes any elegant boulevardier appear even more elegant.

Pike could carry one of those clever walking sticks with a little flask of brandy concealed in the handle.

“Open Channel D.” Pike’s walking stick could also be a secret radio for transmitting T.H.R.U.S.H secrets to Mr. Waverly at U.N.C.L.E.

A walking stick can be used to measure the depth of street puddles and the Atlantic Ocean.

A swordstick would be handy for dealing with Commie assassins on darkened Berlin streets. It would also amuse TSA agents at airports.

A walking stick is good for beating snakes to death, especially the endangered species.

Why a walking stick? Because a walking pine cone just won’t do.

Most of all, I think my friend Pike should use his walking stick because without it he might fall and hurt himself. And that would make me very sad.

Pike would be sad too.

-30-

On the Shortage of Farmhands - Poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com


On the Shortage of Farmhands

Or

Got Gratitude?

No televised awards for milking cows
No presidential medals of milkdom
No red carpets or memorial plaques
No offices, carpets, or retirement plans

The poets are silent on those who milk
Those pretty girls in cool convertibles
Are never known to swoon over good farmhands
And no one sings “She thinks my Jersey’s sexy!”

No takers? No need to wonder why and how
Since no one honors the man who milks a cow

Autumn Equinox with Heat and Dust - Poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Autumn Equinox with Heat and Dust

Perhaps old Janus is an autumn god
His door is open to the summer too
Open both ways at this the equinox
Upon tired heat and fall’s pale promises

Sunsets are earlier, and now the dusk
Is noisy with the mowers of late-summer
Still making hay while tractor headlights shine
Upon sad, dust-blown fields for one last turn

This is Saint Matthew’s Day, and summer still
Hangs heavily, like poor Macbeth’s late summons

An Offset Wing - Poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

An Offset Wing

A pine nut rotors down, suspended from
Its only wing for this its only flight
Dreamed long ago, and sung into this autumn
To free-fall-spin on warm September’s wind

This aviator of the mono-wing
Knows nothing of machined efficiency
Or scheduled maintenance according to
Electric rhythms in a plastic box

Its flight is brief, but changes everything:
A pine nut rotors down, and moves the world


Variant:

An Offset Wing

A pine nut rotors down, suspended from
Its only wing for this its only flight
Dreamed long ago, and sung into this autumn
To free-fall-spin on warm September’s wind

This aviator on a mono-wing
Knows nothing of machine efficiency
Or scheduled maintenance for turn-around
Its brevity is for eternity

The flight is brief, but changes everything:
A pine nut rotors down, and moves the world

Notification of Death - Poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Notification of Death

A sheet of paper is a forest leaf
Two sides of life reflected in the sun:
On one side is written the joy of youth
And on the other side an elegy

A single leaf is but ephemera
When one side disappears into the mist
So does the other one – or maybe not:
We are told both sides are corrected and kept

Fair-copied cleanly by a steady Hand
And folded then into the Book of Bliss

The Joint Task Force Combat Commando Pillow Brigade of Fluffy Death

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Joint Task Force Combat Commando Pillow Brigade of Fluffy Death

During the American Revolution, West Point, nee’ Fort Clinton, nee’ Fort Arnold, was fortified in order to keep the British Navy from controlling the Hudson River. The position was so important that the British paid General Arnold a great deal of money and a generalship in the British Army to betray the soldiers in his command. The plot failed but General Arnold got his British general’s uniform and maybe a nice pillow.

The matter of the Great West Point Pillow Fight of 2015 seems to have gone to sleep in the past few weeks. The thoughtful reader will remember that West Point ends its summer training with a pillow fight, just like the Marines, the 300 Spartans, the Samurai, the SEALS, the S.A.S., and the Spetsnaz.

The West Point Ye Olde Army Pillow Fight is said to be a century-old tradition. Several West Pointers from the 1970s report never having heard of it. Maybe West Point is like other schools, inventing brand-new old-time traditions every week or so.

One does not easily imagine Meade, Sherman, Lee, Patton, Pershing, Eisenhower, Abrams, Clark, Merrill, Ridgeway, and Haig pillow-fighting. Or their commandant ordering them to do so.

This year some of the lads decided that placing hard objects such as their helmets into the pillow cases would add to the merriment. Emergency room admissions followed. Nothing says Army Strong like breaking a fellow soldier’s arm or skull through a Benedict Arnold-ish dirty trick. In future wars these young officers will certainly know how much they can trust each other.

Since this is how future officers of the U.S. Army go all frat boy on each other, will they respect the service and dignity of the young enlisted men and women under their command?

The Russian army and air force are now active in Syria, and the Chinese navy is poking about in the ocean off Alaska. Russian bombers play double-dog-dare along the air spaces of free countries in Europe. In response, West Point is training the future leaders of the American army through Cub Scout hijinks.

Perhaps that’s in Sun Tzu’s The Art of Pillow.

“This is my pillow. There are many like it. But this one is mine.”

No doubt our young soldiers posted to Whose-Stupid-Idea-Was-This-Istan make their way into camp after exhausting patrols and small-unit action in the dust and heat and then amuse themselves with a jolly pillow fight.

Just like their superior officers.

The superintendent of West Point, a modern, sensitive sort of general who refers to soldiers as teammates, promised a full investigation, followed by short-sheeting the perpetrators.

Jokes aside, the New York Times reports that thirty cadets were injured in the pillow fight, with twenty-four of them suffering from concussion. In a pillow fight.

A pillow fight.

Thirty casualties.

In a pillow fight.

What would the odious Benedict Arnold think of that?

-30-

Room at the Inn

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Room at the Inn

If Jesus had been born in Newfoundland, the folks there would have found room for the Holy Family.

Many Americans fly over Newfoundland on their way to and from Europe, but too few visit that beautiful island. Fourteen years ago, when all flights to and from the USA were forbidden, a great many people of all nations found themselves taking an unexpected time-out there.

This piece of 9/11 history comes from Newfoundland via a friend of a friend there. Heather McKinnon, the operations manager of the Delta Hotel and Conference Center in St. John’s, relates this remembrance of 9.11.2001 and the days following:


I will never forget this day for the rest of my days. It was a Tuesday, on Sept 11, 2001. We became aware at the Delta that we would start accepting the passengers whose flights were landing in quick succession at YYT [St. John’s]. The first group of guests who arrived were flight crews from two United Airlines flights who had just lost many of their colleagues. They were shell shocked. Then the passengers started arriving - hundreds more than we could handle comfortably. And they kept coming. They slept on the floor in the ballrooms and meeting rooms, on couches in the lobby, anywhere they could find a space. This went on until the following Sunday. And my team here at the Delta displayed a level of humanity I won't soon forget. They swung into action. Worked an 8 hour shift and then volunteered to stay behind as unpaid volunteers for another 8-10 hours - served food, read stories to the children, organized games, took passengers to their homes for showers, did pharmacy runs. It went on and on. Corporate partners like Margot Bruce-O'Connell at ExxonMobil reached out to help us manage the masses. George Street United Church ministers conducted an ecumenical service in our lobby and everyone gathered together. Air Canada and United Airlines stranded flight crew showed up in their uniforms as a sign of respect to the fallen air crew of the US flight crew. It was heart breaking.

We had to ask all the ballroom sleeping bag guests to pack up their belongings on the Saturday before they left so a wedding could go ahead. Once the dinner was over, the bride threw open the doors to the ballroom and invited the passengers to the dance. For the first dance, they all joined hands in a massive circle around the wedding couple as they took their first dance. These passengers arrived as strangers. On Sunday, they left as grateful friends. On this day, every year since, I still receive messages from some of the guests from that week. They say the same thing. They will never forget. I have kept every one of those messages. What a week that was.

Amen.

An excellent book related to the thousands of travelers grateful to have been given sanctuary by the generous citizens of Newfoundland is Jim DeFede’s The Day the World Came to Town, New York: Harper Collins, 2002.

-30-

Enemies Foreign and Domestic - Poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Enemies Foreign and Domestic

Some battles are fought in dripping woods
And others along rivers lost in mist
Still others are fought in book and pen and thought
And in unhappy dreams, still lost in mist